


Cruelly Marked

by ValeCimmerian



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValeCimmerian/pseuds/ValeCimmerian
Summary: In the aftermath of the Apocalypse that wasn't, Crowley is not left alone as they had hoped, and Aziraphale must find him.





	Cruelly Marked

It wasn't entirely unusual for Crowley to disappear off for days. Aziraphale understood, innately, that beyond whatever they were, duties must be fulfilled and evil (or good) must be spread, so although when the fifth day dawned he really yearned for Crowley's company, there was restraint in his dissatisfied sighs and he lost himself in another book. On the seventh day, in hindsight, Aziraphale really should have gotten worried, but he had just gotten to the good part and he was certain Crowley would come back soon, or at least phone him to complain about the awful conduct of Below. 

On the 16th day, they had tickets to a performance of a new play Crowley had informed him would be big, or at least that he'd like it which amounted to the same thing. It was unusual for them to have plans, and even more so for Crowley to not turn up. Aziraphale couldn't quite bring himself to go, and the bitterness turned to a slow-churning anxiety. He sat in front of a book, the pages open but he'd been reading the same few words over and over, not processing or concentrating. He pressed his head into his hands heavily. It was so unlike Crowley to go this long without even speaking to him. They had once gone entire centuries without seeing one another, but since the debacle that was the French Revolution they'd seen one another almost every day, even if only fleetingly, especially since they had both settled in their respective places in London. Aziraphale sighed, shut the covers of his book, and turned to his phone. There was only one number he ever called on it. It rang through. He called again, worrying the cord between his fingers and trying desperately to not hold his breath. Silence greeted him. 

Aziraphale slowly and shakily put the phone back on the receiver, leaning heavily against the doorway to his back room. Try as he might, he could not escape the circling thoughts of all that might have happened. While he wasn't familiar with Hell's etiquette, he was pretty sure regular meetings with an angel would be considered consorting with the enemy, something not usually forgivable, and could only imagine what Below might do to his Crowley if they found how soft he'd gotten. He was soft, and had been for quite a while, but while Aziraphale regarded that with a gentle fondness the Prince of Darkness Himself might not be so lenient. He closed his eyes for a second. Bad idea. He opened them again, trying to cleanse himself of the images his imagination had apparently been working on in the background for two whole weeks. 

Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his eyes. It was no use sitting and fretting, he'd have to go looking for Crowley. 

Having locked the bookshop (three times in all, and a little miracle just to be sure) Aziraphale realised he wasn't sure where to go. After all, Crowley could have gone anywhere in the world in no time at all. It took a moment of standing on the busy pavement outside his bookshop, the shoulders of strangers shifting him from one place to another, to think of where to go. A jolt and a few shudders later, and Aziraphale started towards Crowley's apartment. He wasn't sure why, since he rang and nobody answered, but it was a start at least. He couldn't stay still for much longer, his legs were shaking with the adrenaline of anxiety and fears that plagued his head. After a moment, he realised he wasn't entirely sure how to walk to Crowley's, having only been driven there before in the demon's prized Bentley and when Crowley drives he can only concentrate on how fast the thing is going, and couldnt you slow down a little dear, and that grin on Crowley's face that he wished he could lean over and wipe off his face with a kiss- Oh dear. Aziraphale was lost in his head again. With a little sigh he stopped, hailed a cab, and gave the address. 

The whole way there the angel was leaning forwards, knee bouncing, asking the cabbie if they could go any faster, until the very frustrated person just trying to do their job rolled up the window and turned the radio up louder to drown out Aziraphale's incessant questioning. Since the universe seemed to be out to get him, of course it was playing 'Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy' and images of Crowley singing along, tapping the steering wheel, glancing at him over the top of those sunglasses, cut with the thought of where he might be now played through his mind. 

It was only twenty minutes, a miracle considering usual London traffic, but it felt like aeons. When the outside of Crowley's apartment appeared, Aziraphale practically leapt out the still moving vehicle, ignoring the driver's protests (coincidentally the driver found himself unable to remember how he got there). Aziraphale moved faster than he had in a long time, big strides up the cool grey steps with panting intakes of breath, feet pounding so hard it hurt, cursing the cakes and pastries behind his soft, useless belly, trying not to see his demon's face gazing at him as he consumed said pastries. 

He reached the door, breathing heavily, legs shivering, hands sweaty and clenched in his palms. He knocked. Nothing. Knocked again. Nothing. A tentative hand grasped the handle, and turned. A faint click. Unlocked. Unlike Crowley to be so unguarded, and Aziraphale's heart was in his throat. He opened the door. He called out Crowley's name, turned a corner in the corridor and oh-

There he was.

Crowley looked terrible. He was sprawled out on the floor, almost all the feathers on his wings were gone, the bruised skin and thin bones underneath visible, askew on his body as though something was broken. He only wore a tattered pair of jeans, pulled up over his hips that looked so delicate, and his feet were cut and bruised. He was curled slightly on one side, wing obscuring his bare torso, but sticky demon ichor Aziraphale guessed was around a week old coated the floor around him, and his arms were covered in bruises and welts in surprisingly neat lines coiling around. His eyes were half closed, breath coming in wheezy rasps, and hair limp, sticking to his forehead. When he heard the footsteps of his angel, his head whipped around to snarl at him.  
'What are you doing here?'  
Aziraphale was speechless, his legs gave out and he reached helplessly towards his demon. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no sound escaped. Crowley's face was twisted, half in pain and half in anger, and he ached to be cradled gently, to be told it was okay, to be safe.  
'Haven't you done enough already?' Crowley spat the words out and it hurt to push away but he couldnt risk it, couldnt bear the thought of Heaven taking his angel and hurting him. If Hell had done this, what would compassionless obedient Heaven do to a dissenter? To one not only consorting with but seeking out the enemy? Aziraphale's face crumpled along with his body, hands reaching out as he hit the floor, finding the edge of a broken wing and gently stroking the feathers. Crowley flinched, in doing so jolting some wound and broke into sobs.  
'Oh my dear, what did they do to you?' Aziraphale lifted his head to look at his demon, to see closer what Below had done. There was no other explanation for it. And oh- his fault. Of course. Why else, but for seeing an angel? For caring for an angel? Aziraphale couldn't help but see the care Crowley held for him in every unfulfilled glance, twitch of fingers towards his own. With horror, Aziraphale withdrew. Crowley wanted to cry out, to tell him to come back, but he was choked by his own pain and fear. Somehow Aziraphale picked his shaking body up off the floor, looking at the hurt and shivering demon below him, aching to comfort and heal.   
'Get away' Crowley tried to hiss but it came out like a desperate sob. Aziraphale too began to cry, hardly able to look but unable to tear himself away. Another incoherent snarl from Crowley, and he managed to stumble from the room like a blind man running in fear from a monster he could not see. Crowley cried out again, curling his aching and broken wings around his injured body, dragging his fingers through the ichor still spilling sluggishly from the gash in his side. He could have slowly healed himself, inch by inch, day by day from the moment he was unceremoniously kicked back up to earth, but a twisted part in his soul rather believed that he deserved this. If he had healed himself there would have been no stopping him hurling himself into the arms of his angel, to be kept and healed, and to drag his angel inadvertently down with him. This pain would have been more bearable than seeing his angel, seeing Aziraphale burn on his way down, had it not been for the look in his eyes just then. 

Aziraphale collapsed in a messy heap just outside the door of Crowley's apartment. He wasn't sure what was worse to see, the hurt on his demon's face or the way he pushed Aziraphale away. The softness of the remaining feathers on his dark wings remained trembling on Aziraphale's hands, and he could not help but wonder what it would have been like to run his fingers through them in their full glory. 

Aziraphale remained there, slumped in the position in which he had fallen, for days. It rained. Someone tossed a coin at him. Every so often he would break into a sob again, heaving gently and clutching desperately at the door behind him. 

Crowley remained in the same place, curled in pain with an ever weakening cry, tracing sigils and symbols in the ichor surrounding him. 

Aziraphale couldn't take it. He couldn't stand being so close, with the images of his poor broken demon laid out on the floor like some sacrificial lamb running rampant through his mind. Sopping wet, curls stuck to his forehead, he walked through the door. Walking with a slow purpose, not running like before but steadily placing one foot in front of the other so he did not lose his resolve to help Crowley despite what he might say. He reached the doorway to the room in which Crowley lay, or at least had before, and pushed his thoughts down. The worst didn't bear thinking about. Holding his heart so tenderly in his hands, Aziraphale walked in slowly. It was as he remembered, the shuddering pain weaker, but just as devastating to look at. Crowley barely turned his head to look at Aziraphale and was unable to hide his conflicted joy. The angel knelt down next to his head.  
'Now then, my dear boy, let me help you' Crowley raised his head as if to protest, but instead clawed his way onto Aziraphale's lap, clinging on to his lapels, gently shaking. He bowed his head, resting it on Aziraphale's shoulder. His angel held him, hands gentle and soothing on the burning pain of his wings. Small words of comfort and encouragement streamed in a low mumble from Aziraphale, and Crowley was betrayed by a low whimper. After a while, Aziraphale lifted Crowley's head to look into his eyes.  
'My love, let me see'  
The expression of adoration shocked Crowley, flinching a little but then moving a hand to Aziraphale's face in wonder. Aziraphale cradled him for a moment, then gently extracted Crowley from where he had burrowed his hands inside his lapels to lay him out across his lap, head cushioned on Aziraphale's stomach. Instinctively Crowley curled his wings around his body, retracting his arms into a cocoon. Aziraphale sighed. It was a sigh that held all the pain and gentle frustration a being could hold. He reached a tentative hand underneath the wings, to where Crowley's hands were. His hands were immediately clung onto, and Crowley met his eyes.   
'Angel, I-'  
'Let me help you, please? It's the least I could do, given I..' the unspoken end of the sentence was all the more painful hanging in the air between the.   
'Please, Aziraphale, I didnt mean it I was just'  
'You're right. It was my fault. Is.'  
Crowley's whole body trembled, and Aziraphale stroked his forehead tenderly. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Crowley unfurled his wings and lay his arms out on top of them, entirely at Aziraphale's mercy, laid bare like that in front of him. And finally Aziraphale could see, that wound Crowley was hiding.   
'Oh, my dear...' he breathed, reaching a finger towards the mark.   
'They.. they branded me with your name, angel. Cut it into me with blessed weapons. Even if it heals it will always scar, even my proper form. ' Crowley barely managed to get the words out, hiding his face in the Angel's thigh with such a despairing shame, dampening it with his tears.   
'I'm so sorry my dear, I'm sorry.' Aziraphale was mesmerised by the shape. His true name should have burned any demon that tried to shape it, so how could one cut that deeply into his Crowley?   
Aziraphale shook himself out of his reverie. He had to fix it. He spread his fingers on either side of Crowley's face, leaning down so their noses almost touched, and closed his eyes. An intense burst of love washed over Crowley, filling him so completely and wholly that for a beautiful moment he couldnt feel the pain and then-   
It was gone. Aziraphale opened his eyes and smiled, visible exhaustion dripping through his exterior, brushing a gentle kiss to the tip of Crowley's nose and moving away just as Crowley arched his neck up to catch Aziraphale's mouth on his own. Ever so carefully, as though he thought his demon was made of paper stretched over glass, Aziraphale brushed his hands across his arms and wings where the wounds had been. Crowley's wings weren't quite as glossy or neat as Aziraphale had hoped, but they were no longer sparse and oh- just as soft as he imagined. Gently, angelic hands drifted down the expanse of his chest to where the mark was. It was still there, an ugly angry red picked out against the white of his demon's skin, but ichor no longer dripped from it. Crowley looked haggard and tired, but not on the brink of death. Aziraphale closed his eyes slightly. The mark should have been healed. He placed both hands on Crowley's chest over the sigil, closely followed by Crowley's own. It seemed Crowley would always be marked by his angel.


End file.
